


Redemption

by Russ (Quasar)



Category: Wiseguy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasar/pseuds/Russ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Frank in the hospital and Vinnie overstressed, it will take the help of an old friend to nail Charles Boden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written May 1996. This story takes place at the end of the third season, a few days after the episode "Brrump-Bump!"

Frank McPike curled his lip in distaste at the variegated slop on the tray before him. "I thought the doctor said I could have solid food," he protested.

"This is the first step," the nurse soothed. "You get this down, and tomorrow you can try something a little more substantial." He lifted a spoonful of the mush and guided it to Frank's mouth.

"Eugh," Frank said as he swallowed. "Are you sure we can't skip straight to the pizza and fried chicken?"

"Now, Mr. McPike. First you have to prove you can handle something mild."

"Yeah, yeah. At least let me feed myself." Frank gripped the spoon clumsily in his left hand. The nurse watched him for a few minutes before retreating.

"Still making friends wherever you go, Frank?" asked a light voice from the doorway.

Frank looked up, and his jaw dropped. "Lillah? Lillah Warfield?"

"The one and only." She stepped gracefully into the room and dropped her purse onto a chair.

"What are you doing in Seattle?"

"I live here." Lillah came to stand by the head of the bed. "Aren't you going to eat that?"

Mechanically, Frank brought the spoon to his mouth. "How did you find out I was in the hospital?"

"Are you serious? Frank, you were shot just a few minutes before a scheduled press conference. It was all over the news -- with some very dramatic footage."

"Oh, God." The spoon clattered onto the tray. "Vinnie said the first reports claimed I was dead."

"That's right. It wasn't until two days later I saw the little footnote in the papers. I guess good news just doesn't sell like bad news."

"God, Lillah, I'm sorry. That's no way to find out."

"Frank, it wasn't your fault. The important thing is, you are alive, and you're going to get better. If you eat your food, that is."

Frank grunted and managed another spoonful. "That's debatable," he said glumly. "The doctors are still trying to figure out how much brain damage there is from my heart being stopped for over five minutes."

Lillah frowned. "Well, you're smart enough not to want to eat that stuff." She dipped a fingertip in the puree, brought it to her lips, and made a face. "The damage can't be too bad."

"I figure it must have been part of the ninety percent of my brain that I don't use anyway. Or ninety-nine percent, the way Vince tells it." After one more taste, he pushed the tray out of his way. "Anyway, it's nice to have visitors. Pull up a chair and tell me what you're doing in Seattle. Still with State?"

Lillah spent a few extra seconds adjusting the chair position, her back to the bed. "No, I left. I had a run-in with some higher-ups who wanted me to do things their way, instead of the right way." She sat down, her face set like marble. "Actually, I understand you had some trouble with one of them yourself. General Leland Masters?"

"That old snake? But he's in jail now."

She smiled fiercely. "I know. But it came too late to save my career with the State Department."

Frank shook his head. "That's a damned shame, Lillah. Those old men sit in their offices in the White House, ordering an invasion here, an assassination there -- and a ruined career for anyone who stands in their way."

She nodded. "In some ways, they're even worse than the racketeers and drug runners. But you brought them down, Frank. I can't tell you how glad I was when Masters finally got what was coming to him."

Frank shrugged an eyebrow. "We barely pulled it off. He had Vince up on charges of high treason."

"How is Vinnie? He's here in Seattle with you?"

"Yeah, he's on leave. He was having some trouble with job stress . . . " Frank shook his head wearily. "Lillah, I'm really glad to see you, but I can't stay awake more than ten minutes at a time now. Come back later?"

"Sure, Frank." Lillah stood and took his hand.

"My wife left me," Frank confessed. "For good, this time."

Her mouth curved sadly. "I know."

"You were checking up on me?"

"Just watching out for my friends." She leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Get better, Frank. Say Hi to Vinnie for me."

 

The next time Lillah visited, Frank was ready. Thanks to brain damage or blood loss or painkillers, he had missed what wasn't said the first time around. But when he saw her again he brought it up right away.

"So if you're not with State anymore, what are you doing?"

There was a momentary hesitation in Lillah's movements as she folded her coat over a chair. "I've been working as a security consultant," she said slowly, "which is a fancy way of saying I have an expensive office and an unreliable income. I've been thinking of going private."

"A PI?" Frank's voice cracked with disbelief. "You?"

She smiled at his surprise. "Why not? You know I've always been good at finding things out."

"Well, yes, but you -- but it's --" Frank shook the image away. "Have you considered working with the Bureau?"

Her smile dropped, and she looked at the floor. "I thought about it," she admitted. "But as you said once yourself, Frank, government agencies don't like to cross-pollinate."

"They turned you down? I can't believe that."

"I didn't ask. I guess I was so afraid of being rejected, I didn't even want to try. Which is not a good reason, I know. But, Frank, no matter where I go, I'm going to be carrying around those trumped-up charges that Masters stuck me with. With that kind of cloud over my head, no government organization will want me."

"I might be able to do something about that."

"Sure."

"I mean it, Lillah. Masters has been shown up for the unbalanced bastard he is. No one's going to believe charges that trace back to his office. And I have the director's ear. If you're really interested, I think I can get you in."

She swallowed. "I'll think about it."

"So." Frank cleared his throat. "What else have you been up to? Is there . . . anyone new in your life?"

Lillah smiled. "Frank --"

The door opened before she could get any further, and Nona Pope walked in, followed by Dan Burroughs. Dan held a finger up to his lips as the door clicked closed behind him, and Nona pulled a long antenna from her purse.

Frank's customary saturnine expression deepened to a scowl as Nona swept the room slowly and methodically, but he said nothing until she folded the antenna and gave him a nod. "What the hell was that all about?" he demanded.

Nona looked expectantly at Lillah.

"Nona Pope, this is Lillah Warfield. Lillah, you met Dan before. Nona is his opposite number here in the Pacific Northwest. Now, do you mind explaining what's going on?"

"Vinnie found a bug in Father Pat's rectory last night," Dan explained. "It was in a gift that had just been delivered anonymously."

"What? Who --"

"Who do you think?" Nona said bitterly. "Charlie Boden."

"We can't be sure," Dan corrected her. "But he is the most likely suspect. He was probably wondering if we had any other evidence to tie him to HES." Dan pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket. "Did you hear the news? Emmet Soul is dead."

"Heart failure," Frank read from the article.

"Yeah," Dan snorted. "His heart stopped right after he put a bullet in his brain."

"Suicide?" Lillah asked.

"Got it in one. It practically amounts to an admission of guilt, but that doesn't do us much good since it doesn't implicate Boden."

"And with the autopsy report to show that Kousakis was mad when he shot you and killed Harriet Weiss," Nona concluded, "there's no way to pass the buck any further. Boden walks free."

"You win some, you lose some," Frank told her firmly.

Nona frowned. "Charles Boden has a finger in every pie here in Seattle. There isn't a criminal racket that doesn't have his sanction, and pay him a share of the profits. Not to mention his legal activities, which lend him legitimacy and conceal his corruption. We don't even know how many city officials he has on his payroll. Isn't this exactly what the OCB is supposed to stop?"

"Wait, if you're talking about the Chairman of the Commissioner's Advisory Board, he just lost a couple of his key players, didn't he?" Lillah suggested. "Can't you use that to get a man on the inside?"

"Yeah, but who?" Dan asked bitterly.

"What, you don't have any agents in Seattle?"

"Oh, sure. Me, Frank, Nona, and Vinnie. And Boden's made all of us. He won't touch us with a tent pole. Any other agent we bring in would have some documented connection with at least one of us -- that's if we could even persuade the RD to approve it."

Lillah looked thoughtful. "What about someone who isn't on the OCB payroll?" she said slowly.

"Like who?" Nona asked.

"Oh, say, a former State Department employee who was dismissed under suspicious circumstances. Do you think Boden would bite at that?"

"Oh, no," Frank interrupted, trying to hitch himself higher in the bed. "No way. You are not getting involved in this, Lillah."

"Why not? Dan was just saying the OCB is at a standstill. Wouldn't outside help be indicated?"

"Not you. You're a private citizen."

"But that's just what you need! No traceable connections."

"Yeah, and no backup!"

"What do you mean? I see two Lifeguards and an experienced field supervisor right in this very room."

"And all of us have our hands tied!"

"That's why I'd be on point. I'm the hands, and the rest of you are the brains."

"It could work," Nona admitted.

"No, it won't work, because we won't even try!" Frank insisted. "It's a crazy idea."

Lillah leaned forward persuasively. "But, Frank, it would look so much better on my record if I could say I assisted with an OCB investigation. It would really improve my chances of making a new start!"

"If you survive! Who's going to make sure you don't stick your head in a noose? I'm trapped here in the hospital!"

"Vinnie could supervise," Dan suggested innocently. "Isn't that what you've always wanted, Frank, for Vinnie to see things from your side of the fence?"

This image stopped Frank in mid-expostulation with his mouth open.

"Come on, Frank," Lillah urged. "It's not like I have anything better to do."

 

"You want me to do what?" Vinnie demanded.

Frank answered in slow, measured tones, which was a warning signal to anyone who knew him. "Lillah is going to try to work her way into Charlie Boden's organization. I want you to be her mother hen."

"But Boden knows me, Frank. He's not going to trust me!"

"He doesn't have to trust you. Lillah's the one going under. You just have to be her liaison and advisor -- and backup if she gets in trouble."

"But I'm on leave!"

"Exactly. If you were working on another case, you couldn't do this. You need a flexible schedule, so you can meet whenever she's free. You can stay at the rectory, help Father Pat with his plumbing or whatever -- you just check with the Lifeguard three times a day, and keep a phone with you at all times in case there's an emergency."

"But -- why Lillah? Why not an OCB operative?"

"Because this isn't an OCB operation." Frank looked as if he'd bitten into something rotten. "I couldn't make it fly with the RD -- he has a grudge against me."

"A grudge? You've never worked in this area before!"

"Yeah, that's because Beckstead has been carefully keeping us separated. There's no way this is going to be an official case, but you and I and your Uncle Mike are all on leave. We can make it work."

Vinnie shook his head. "I still don't get it, Frank. Why Lillah Warfield? She's with the State Department."

"Not anymore, she's not. She's a private citizen."

"What?" Vinnie's voice rose. "After all the times you've gotten on my back for involving civilians?"

Frank chewed on his lip, suppressing powerful emotion. "She has the experience, and she has a background that could convince Boden that she's corrupt. It's a perfect opportunity to get someone on the inside."

Vinnie gaped. "I can't believe you're letting her do this!"

The dam broke. "Letting her! Letting her? How am I supposed to stop her? She's a private citizen applying for a job with a respected city official. You tell me, what am I supposed to do about that?"

"Well -- you could have her arrested for jeopardizing an OCB investigation."

"What investigation? The RD says we're not going after Boden!" Frank breathed deeply to calm himself and winced as he eased back against the pillows.

Vinnie considered this catch-22. "So if she's just a private citizen looking for work," he said slowly, "how do you explain us getting involved in all this?"

"We're not involved. We're old friends of Lillah's. Naturally she keeps in touch. And if she gets into some kind of trouble in her new job, who else would she turn to?"

Vinnie narrowed his eyes, and under the scrutiny Frank began to look uneasy. "You know Beckstead's gonna have your ass in a sling for this," Vinnie said.

Frank sighed deeply. "I know. But if we don't give Lillah the support, she's likely to go in on her own anyhow. If we work with her we at least have a chance of keeping her safe. I don't expect her to bring down Boden's whole power structure or get evidence for indictments. Once she gets enough leads to show what kind of an operation Boden is running, I can go over the regional director's head and get a real investigation started. I'm counting on you --" he stabbed a finger at Vinnie "-- to pull her out if things start getting ugly."

"Me, why me?"

"Because I'm tied to a hospital bed with tubes up my nose!" Frank spat.

A nurse walked into the room, glanced suspiciously at the two men, and frowned over the monitors. She made a note on the chart at the foot of the bed, then crooked a finger at Vinnie. "Could I speak with you a moment, sir?"

In the hallway, she confronted him like a terrier challenging a bulldog. "Mr. Terranova, your friend has been seriously injured. He nearly lost his life. He doesn't need additional aggravation to slow his recovery."

Vinnie shuffled his feet. "Yes, ma'am," he said meekly.

She wasn't ready to let him go that easily. "Now, if you and his other friends can't understand this, I'm going to have to ask the doctor to deny him any visitors."

Vinnie pursed his mouth humorously. "I don't think that would help keep him calm," he said.

"We will be the judges of what is best for our patients. Is that clearly understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now, you go back in there and agree with anything Mr. McPike says, and you leave within five minutes, or I'll have to call security." She spun on her orthopedic shoes and padded down the hallway.

Vinnie watched the rigid line of her retreating back. "Everybody's ganging up on me," he muttered, scratching his beard. "Aw, hell." He pushed open the door to Frank's room. "All right, Frank," he said before the patient could open his mouth to argue further. "I'll do it. It still sounds crazy to me, but I'll do what I can to keep Lillah safe. Don't you worry about anything."

Frank looked suspicious. "You're agreeing with me?"

"We'll make it work. Lillah checks in daily with Uncle Mike, I meet with her if there's a problem, and you get the digest form of the reports. Just leave everything to us, and you get better, okay?" Vinnie patted Frank's shoulder, grabbed his jacket, and left with a powerful feeling that he had been roped into something he would hate.


	2. Chapter 2

Lillah stepped out of the elevator on the fifth floor of City Hall, straightened her jacket, and smiled at Charles Boden' secretary. The secretary consulted her schedule and waved Lillah into the lion's den. Boden's office was a large room, paneled in dark wood and richly appointed, with the clutter that attends a long tenure. Boden wasn't there, but a burly black man in a three-piece suit stood up from a chair by the door as she entered.

Lillah blinked at him. "I'm here to see Charles Boden. I have an appointment."

The man nodded at a half-open side door leading out of the office. Puzzled, Lillah walked toward the door. It opened into a small room, apparently used as a combination coffee lounge and storeroom. A more recent addition was a small pen of collapsible wooden fencing, lined with paper. Charles Boden was reaching over one side of the fence, commanding the eager attention of three young puppies.

"Cute little buggers, aren't they?" he rumbled without looking up. "I haven't decided yet which one to keep. Maybe I'll take them all."

The fat little creatures were apparently golden Labradors, recently weaned. The food from their dish was liberally scattered around the pen, as if they weren't sure yet what to do with it.

Boden straighted up, one hand massaging his back. "Now, what can I do for you, Miss --?"

"Lillah Warfield, Security Unlimited," said Lillah, extending her business card. "I called you yesterday."

"Ah, yes. But I'm still not sure I understand what you want from me." Boden led the way back into the main office and settled himself heavily behind the desk. The black man sat down again in his chair by the door.

Lillah remained standing. "It's more a question of what I can do for you, Chairman Boden. I understand you've suffered some business setbacks recently."

His brow wrinkled. "I have?"

"The difficulty with Health Elimination Systems --"

"That had nothing to do with me," he interrupted, his expression quite pleasant.

"Ah. Of course. But there was also the unfortunate death of Harriet Weiss."

New lines sprang out on Boden's face. "Yes. Poor Harriet. She was a dear friend of mine, a grievous personal loss. But how is this a business setback?"

Lillah's jaw tightened. Boden wasn't going to open himself to her easily. "Let me be quite clear, Mr. Boden," she said, settling herself into the chair opposite him. "I was previously employed by the State Department. I was let go because of -- a disagreement about methods. Now I work for myself. But I still have quite a number of connections in State and Justice, connections that could be very useful to a man like you."

Boden rested his chin on his fist. "Well, now, I have some connections myself. I'm the chief advisor to the Commissioner of Police, and I have a lot of friends in the justice system. What could I possibly need from you?"

"Is that why Emmet Soul is dead? I had the impression his . . . fatal heart attack was brought on by the stress of an impending indictment."

Boden's eyes narrowed. "Emmet was an old man, older than me. The ticker can go any time."

"Especially when it's given some encouragement."

"In any case," Boden said quickly, "as I said, I had nothing to do with this HES fiasco, and therefore no interest in Emmet's indictment."

Lillah just held his gaze for a few seconds. Boden had documented connections to Soul going back decades, and he knew it. Judging this was not the time to push just yet, Lillah leaned back a little. "Actually, Mr. Boden, the particular skills that I can offer you would be in the area of information gathering. I think the fact that I know the circumstances surrounding Mr. Soul's demise speaks for itself. Now, my connections are federal, not local. I have access to information you wouldn't be able to get from the Commissioner or your friends here in the city. And since the shooting incident at St. Matthew's the other night, you can believe that Seattle will be drawing some federal attention."

Boden tipped his head back. "And you could offer me some assistance with this?"

"As I said, I deal in information, not the . . . alteration of outcomes. But a timely warning could be very useful to you."

"Hmm. And what would you expect in return for such timely warnings?"

"A modest remuneration, nothing unreasonable. And you would give out my name occasionally."

"Beg pardon?"

"My security consulting firm has just opened. We don't have much business yet; most of it will come through word of mouth. A word from your mouth could be especially valuable."

"And how do I know that your services are worth a word from me? Forgive me, Ms. Warfield, but you don't look much like other security experts I've known."

Lillah sighed inwardly. She had been hoping that Boden's long association with Harriet Weiss would have given him an open mind, but with men everything had to come down to a question of who had the biggest . . . biceps. She stood up. "Even in the security business, Mr. Boden, muscle isn't everything. If I may?" She headed toward the doorman, holding out her hand.

The black man got to his feet uncertainly and reached to shake hands with her. Instead, she grabbed his pinky and bent it back against his hand, forced the hand back against the wrist and the forearm against the elbow, and bore down. With a grunt, the man went to his knees on the carpet. Lillah was standing behind him and to one side, where he couldn't strike at her.

She held him there only for a moment; she wasn't at all sure he wouldn't be willing to break his finger to get free. Releasing the hold, she stepped back and dropped her hands, trying to look unafraid as he surged to his feet. If he ever got a good hold on her, he could probably squash her with one hand.

"That's all right, Mr. Kenneth," Boden snapped, stopping the doorman in his tracks. Mr. Kenneth drew his lips back from his teeth and settled into a sort of parade rest.

Lillah turned her back on the looming menace and returned to her chair. "In any case, you must agree that muscle has very little to do with the service I'm offering you." She crossed her legs and leaned back, nonchalant.

Boden steepled his hands together and considered for what seemed a very long time. Lillah forced herself to wait as if it was no great matter to her either way.

"Very well, Ms. Warfield. You say you have talent in gathering information. Perhaps there is something you could do for me after all." Boden pulled out a drawer and brought forth a glossy photograph. "I need to know more about this man." He tossed the print across the desk.

It was a shot of Vinnie Terranova, looking scruffy and desperate, with a .38 in his hands. Lillah restrained her reaction. "What do you have on him so far?" she asked, tilting the photograph to the light.

"His name is Vinnie. He's from the East, and he appears to be a pro."

"Fallen on hard times, by the look of this," Lillah mused.

"He knows how to protect himself. We haven't been able to get to him."

"Vinnie. No last name?"

"You said you were good at getting information. That's what I need."

Lillah nodded. "All right, I'll see what I can find out. May I keep this?" She held up the photo.

"Go ahead. You get me something on this Vinnie character, something I can use, and I'll consider your proposal. Mr. Kenneth?"

The doorman took one heavy step toward Lillah. Recognizing the end of the interview, she rose smoothly and circled around him to the door. "I'll be in touch, Mr. Boden," she promised, and let herself out.

 

There was an outside payphone on the corner, half a block from City Hall. Lillah stopped there and dug through her purse for a quarter. She was going to have to get some more change, if she planned to make frequent phone calls. It took a moment to remember the number; she'd been warned not to write it down. Her memory seemed crammed to overflowing with procedures and access codes. Picking the numbers out of the flotsam, she dialed.

None of Nona's agents was using this line now, so Dan Burroughs' warm baritone answered on the third ring. "Dawson's used books. How can I help you?"

"Daycode, family section -- movies, into, called." Lillah felt ridiculous reciting the code, and it seemed fairly superfluous for identification, but Dan had told her it was more a way of assuring that they could speak freely.

"Hi, Lillah. You miscounted on that second paragraph," Dan said, amused. "The word should be 'the.'"

"Sorry." Lillah's face grew hot.

"Don't worry about it. Today's the thirty-first; tomorrow'll be easier. So how're you doing?"

"Fine. I talked to Boden. He's considering my offer. He gave me a test -- some information that he wants."

"Well, you're talking to information central right here. What do you need to know?"

She hesitated. "I think Vinnie had better make this decision. Tell him I'll meet him in the old textiles warehouse at two."

"You got it, sister. Anything else?"

"Just keep those phone lines warm for me."

"Honey, I'll do more than that," Dan said feelingly. "I'll keep --" He broke off. "Oh, no, Nona, nothing important. Talk to you later, Lillah, okay?"

She hung up laughing.

 

Vinnie was already there, pacing back and forth, when Lillah arrived at the meet. She had circled the warehouse once; Vinnie's car was the only vehicle nearby. She left her own car on the opposite side of the building.

Lillah gaped as she drew closer. "My God, Vinnie, you look like a tramp!"

Vinnie brushed self-consciously at his unkempt hair. He had grown a ragged beard and was wearing a torn shirt and a stained jacket. He looked every bit as scruffy as the photograph. "Yeah, well, these days I am a tramp." He cleared his throat. "Uncle Mike said you needed some information."

"Boden gave me a test to see how good my investigative skills are." Lillah pulled an envelope from her purse and handed it to Vinnie. "He wants me to get information on this man."

Vinnie pulled out the photograph, stared a moment, then smacked his thigh in disgust. "Great," he muttered. "Just great."

"I figure we could set him up with false information, but he might find out about it through other channels. I thought it should be up to you to decide what we give him."

"Oh, Frank is just gonna love this!" Vinnie snarled.

"Don't tell Frank," she said quickly.

Vinnie looked up.

"He doesn't need to know the details. Don't give him anything to worry about."

"Yeah, you're right," Vinnie conceded. "Worrying's my job this time." He slipped the photo back into the envelope. "What about the rest of the meeting? Did it go well?"

"I think I made an impression on him. I'm not sure how close I'll be able to get to his other businesses if I'm just doing legwork on the side, but it's a start. He's already started putting out feelers about my company. He won't have any trouble finding out I need money badly. That should make him feel pretty secure in using me."

"But what about your history with the State Department?"

"That's all pretty tarnished now. A lot of my former colleagues won't even talk to me. Boden can probably confirm that." Lillah's smile turned a little less bitter. "You know, I never thought I'd be grateful that my reputation went down the toilet, or that I couldn't get my own business off the ground. But it makes a perfect cover for this job, and the best part is, it's absolutely genuine."

"Why are you doing this, Lillah?" Vinnie said softly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, this. Why are you helping us investigate Boden?"

"Boden's rotten. Somebody has to stop him."

"Why you? Why are you putting your life and your career on the line? You have something personal against Boden?"

Lillah considered. "I guess I'm like Nona. You can't live in Seattle very long without realizing that Charles Boden controls everything, and no one controls him. You start to resent that, especially if you've been in the business of bringing down men like him. And --"

"And?" Vinnie pressed when she hesitated.

"And Frank nearly got killed because of Boden. For two days, I thought he was dead. Vinnie, I had no idea Frank was anywhere near Seattle, and the next thing I hear he's been murdered two blocks from my office!"

Vinnie watched her measuringly. "I know you care about Frank, but that's still not a good enough reason. You haven't seen Frank in a couple of years. But like you said, you're turning your personal history into a lie, making your own hardship into nothing but a cover. Why?"

Lillah's breath caught. "Don't you get it, Vinnie? I want my years of hardship to be a lie! I want my job back, I want my reputation back! When Masters got me kicked out, I was ruined. I felt dirty, defiled -- like something had been taken away from me. Now I have a chance to get that something back, and to turn my darkest hour to good use."

"But Frank offered to get you a job with the Bureau anyway. He could do it, too. You don't need to go through all this!"

"That's not good enough, Vinnie. I'd still be left with that bitter taste in my mouth. It's a matter of . . . of honor. I don't want to be rescued, I want to redeem myself!"

Vinnie nodded slowly. "I believe you."

Lillah took a deep breath, forcing her shoulder muscles to unclench. "So. What's the verdict? Is that a good enough reason for me to want to help you, or are you calling the whole thing off?"

"What needs to be good is not your motivation, Lillah, but your understanding of it. You have to be able to set it aside in order to get the job done. You can't let your emotions get in the way, and you can't control your emotions unless you know what they are."

"You've had a lot of experience with this, haven't you?" she said softly.

"Yeah," Vinnie breathed. "That's why I'm here. Anyway --" he wiped his hands on his jeans "-- the verdict is, yeah. Let's go for it. We'll give Boden my rap sheet. He already has me figured for an East Coast hood, he'll probably be real impressed if you can confirm that in a short time. I'll send the particulars . . . " he grinned ironically. "To your office. If your career is going to be part of your cover, we might as well use it."


	3. Chapter 3

As Lillah extended a sheaf of papers toward Boden, the smallest of the three puppies came out from under the desk and blundered into her ankle. She picked up the little creature, gave her a pat, and set her down again with a nudge toward the corner, where her brothers were having an exuberant wrestling match.

"Naturally," Lillah began, "with nothing more to go on than 'Vinnie, from the East Coast,' a lot of possibilities came up. Fifty or so of the most likely are listed on the first few pages; they all have roughly the right age, height, weight, and hair color, plus a history of involvement with some of the Eastern rackets. But if you're really looking for a pro, and I mean a heavyweight, one name leaps to the top of the list: Vincent Terranova. Worked for Sonny Steelgrave in Atlantic City a few years ago, and sat on the Commission in New York last year. He's on the other pages. He has quite a reputation."

"Does he match the photo I showed you?" Boden asked, flipping straight to the material on Vinnie.

"Hard to tell; he didn't have a beard at the time. But it certainly could be him."

Boden studied the file, comparing Vinnie's mugshots and newspaper clippings with the profile of the gunman from St. Matthews. "That's him," he said. "It has to be. The bastard killed two of my men!"

Lillah felt a tiny thrill as she realized that Boden had just admitted his involvement with the men who tried to hit Vinnie at the flophouse. It wasn't indictable evidence, yet, but it was a sign that she was getting closer in.

"This is good work, Ms. Warfield," said Boden grudgingly. "Here." He handed her a check. "That should keep your office open another week or so. I believe I'll have some more work for you soon. But first . . . " He sat down behind the desk and spread out the report on Vinnie. "Is there anything in here that we can use against this Terranova fellow? I don't want him running loose in my city."

"Well, are you sure he's still in Seattle?" Lillah stalled.

"Oh, yes. He's staying at St. Matthews, taking advantage of the police security on Father Pat. I can't get anyone near him, and anyway I can't afford to do anything that could be traced back to me."

Lillah considered. Encouraging Boden not to kill Vinnie seemed like a good start. "What about the police? Have they connected him to those killings last week?" It should be safe to call police attention to Vinnie; the OCB could keep them tied up in bureaucracy for months.

"No, they haven't."

"Give them a tip, then. Maybe a little heat will persuade him to leave town."

"You could be right," Boden mused. "You know, Johnny said he thought this fellow was on the run from something."

"There you go. The East must have gotten too hot for him already."

Boden shuffled through the papers. "All the items on this rap sheet are dead, though," he said. "Look at this! 'Failure to execute,' 'improper arrest' . . . Almost all the charges were dropped on some pitiful excuse or another. There's nothing here more recent than six months old. Why would the police be after him now?"

"There could be a charge not listed there, if it was filed in some local precinct," Lillah suggested nervously. Boden guessed that Vinnie had been on the run. If he connected that to the OCB's manhunt for a rogue agent . . . no, there was no trail to lead him to that conclusion.

"Perhaps. Or he might have been running from someone else." Boden fell quiet for a few minutes, studying the file in more detail.

Lillah picked up one of the puppies and began to pet him. He licked every part of her that he could reach, wriggling enthusiastically.

The phone chirped, and Boden picked up the receiver absently. "Yes?" His gaze flicked to Lillah for a moment, measuringly. "Yes, go ahead." A brief pause. "What? When? . . . Dammit, how did this happen? Can't your boys be trusted with a simple disposal job?"

Still petting the puppy, Lillah held her breath.

Boden's voice rose several decibels. "Next you'll be telling me the bowling bag floated away, too! . . . What do they have so far? . . . All right, I'll see if I can control the fire from here. You get your boys out of town . . . No, I'll take care of it. You just do what I tell you and keep your nose clean. Right." Boden slammed the receiver down and leaped to his feet, causing the papers to cascade off his desk. Ignoring them, he stalked to the door and yanked it open. "Get Mr. Kenneth up here," he snapped at the secretaries. Catching sight of Lillah, he spoke in a more restrained tone. "Excuse me, Ms. Warfield. We'll have to continue our discussion later. You did a fine job; I'll be in touch."

Lillah nodded and got up to retrieve her purse. She was wildly curious about the phone call, but guessed that expressing her curiosity would be a shortcut to the mortuary. As she untangled her purse straps from the chair and turned toward the door, one of the puppies squatted on the carpet midway between her and Boden.

Lillah started for the side room to grab some paper towels, but Boden stepped forward with an inarticulate roar and kicked the puppy solidly in the ribs. She flew across the room trailing droplets of urine and slammed against the corner of the desk with a sickening wet thud, then dropped to the floor and lay quite motionless.

Lillah froze in disbelief. The other two puppies cowered in a corner. Boden was still cursing roundly, using a handkerchief to wipe the wet spots from his shiny shoes. Mr. Kenneth appeared in the doorway.

"Get rid of this mess!" Boden snarled, waving at the soiled carpet and the tiny body. "Ms. Warfield?" He indicated the open door.

Coming back to herself, Lillah forced a polite nod and stepped out of the office. All the way down in the elevator, she had to fight down a surge of nausea.

 

After he had briefed Mr. Kenneth thoroughly on what he needed to do, Charles Boden stepped disdainfully around the wet spot on his carpet -- quite invisible now, but he knew it was there; he'd have to get a new carpet -- and returned to his desk to peruse the file on Vincent M. Terranova once more.

The pieces were starting to come together. He was almost certain he knew what Vinnie the drifter had been running from when he came to Seattle and took a cash job. He punched the intercom button on his phone. "Dana, see if you can get me Ralph Simonetti in New York. I know it's late there, but he might still be in his office."

A minute later, the phone rang, and Boden picked it up with a predatory smile. "Ralph! Good to hear your voice. We haven't talked in a while. I hear you had some trouble with the police last year in New York . . . well, that's good. And if they do start giving you heat, I can always find you a place in my organization out here. Listen, you ever hear of a guy called Vinnie Terranova? . . . uh-huh . . . the only Commission member who got away? Now that is interesting. Ralph, I think I can tell you why this guy slipped through the police net. They've turned him. He's out here in my territory, and he blew the whistle on one of my best-paying operations . . . No. I might be able to get someone close enough to him, but I can't take the risk of having my name associated with it . . . Exactly. Just what I was thinking. A little talent from out of town . . . Yes, I can tell you just where to find him."

 

That evening, after a bath that eased some of her angry tension and the guilty thoughts that wouldn't be reasoned away, Lillah curled up on her couch with the evening paper. The front-page story that had caught her interest concerned a coup in Isle Pavot led by the popular figure Imangia Mora, but a smaller item on page 7 made Lillah sit up sharply. She reached for the phone and hesitated, remembering the procedures that Dan and Frank had drilled into her. With a sigh, she went to the bedroom and exchanged her robe for a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, twisting her hair into a ponytail and hoping she wouldn't see anyone she knew. She snatched a few quarters from her purse and headed outside.

It was drizzling, and too cool, and she should have worn her coat, but the payphone was just across the street. Lillah dialed and recited the daycode quickly. "Hey, Dan, remember that phone call of Boden's that I mentioned? I think I know what it was about."

"That body that washed up on shore?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"We've been expecting your call."

"What do you know about it? The paper doesn't say much."

"Let me hand you over to Nona; she knows all the latest police gossip."

Nona came on the line. "Hi there. What do you need to know?"

"When did this guy die?"

"Last week sometime. Can't be more specific until there's an autopsy. Could have been around the time Frank was shot, or maybe as early as when Vinnie took out those two button men."

Lillah squinted at her paper in the dim, dripping light. "It says he was killed by a blow to the head."

"Yes, something large and heavy, with no edges to speak of."

"A bowling ball?"

"Could be. What makes you say that?"

"Something Boden said on the phone. He was wondering if the bowling bag had floated away too."

"That makes sense," Nona said quickly. "It looks like the body was sent to the bottom with a weight tied to the ankle. But one foot was pretty badly mangled even before death, and then something got to nibbling on the body, so it floated free."

"Boden was furious. He said it was a simple disposal job that had been botched."

"So you think he's behind this?"

"I'm sure of it. From his reaction, I'd say he was probably directly involved in the murder." Lillah nibbled her lip, remembering a small body flying through the air. "I don't know if we can prove it without more evidence, though."

"From the currents, the police can get an idea where the body was dumped. If it's shallow enough, they could drag the area looking for this bowling bag . . . "

"That might work. I think I'll have to keep digging for something else to get Boden on, though. This is too flimsy. Oh, damn." Lillah turned around quickly.

"What?"

"I just saw Boden's chief thug, heading this way. I have to get off the phone. Later." Lillah hung up the phone and tried to melt into the sparse nighttime traffic on the sidewalk. She paused under the overhang of a bakery, hunching her shoulders from the rain, and checked casually to see if Mr. Kenneth was still there.

Yes, he was just turning into a side street. He didn't appear to have seen her. And he was carrying something -- Lillah took a few steps forward to see more clearly between the parked cars.

He was carrying a bowling bag.

 

"Well if it isn't my favorite nephew!" Dan exclaimed with a smile. "Say, you didn't go to all this trouble just for me, did you?"

"Uh, no." Vinnie brushed his newly-shaven cheek and closed the apartment door behind him. "It was Father Pat's idea."

"Hey, how's he doing? You getting the rectory in shape for him?"

"Yeah, I think I tracked down all the leaks. Tomorrow I'm going to start on the ceilings. And the floor in the belfry is rotten--"

"Whoa, whoa, are you a cop or a carpenter?"

Vinnie shrugged. "It's nice to be building instead of tearing down for a change, you know?"

"I know, pardner. Listen, do me a favor --" Dan leaned forward confidentially in his wheelchair. "Don't come by here in a tux or anything, okay? I don't want Nona to see how nice you clean up."

"I heard that!" came a voice from the kitchen. Nona appeared and raised her eyebrows at her first sight of Vinnie clean-shaven. "Hmm, not bad. Personally, I prefer beards, though." She gave Dan a peck on his cheek.

Vinnie looked embarrassed. "So, uh, what about this phone call?"

Dan nodded. "I thought you should hear Lillah's exact words for yourself. I have tapes of her check-ins from this afternoon and this evening." He punched the play button and sat back to listen to the reports all over again.

" . . . I have to get off the phone. Later," said Lillah's voice tinnily, followed by a click.

Vinnie frowned. "That doesn't sound too good. Boden's chief thug?"

"I think she must be talking about his driver and bodyguard," Nona put in. "Mr. Kenneth. Big nasty-looking guy. Goes everywhere with Boden."

"Except when he gets sent on errands, huh? I don't like this, Uncle Mike. First she uncovers a murder, then she has to get off the phone in a big hurry."

Dan chuckled. "Son, you've been known to do that a time or two yourself."

"Yeah, and I usually ended up getting in a fight right afterwards."

"Lillah can handle herself. She's been doing a good job. What we need to be thinking about is how we can take this murder business any further. You pull her out now, there's no way we'll even get to trial with what we have."

"Yeah, yeah." Vinnie considered. "You talked to the locals yet?"

"Nona has, she's got some friends on the force."

Nona looked pessimistic. "They don't have any leads either. Maybe once they have the victim's identity, or the exact time or cause of death, we could make a connection. But it doesn't look too promising."

"Then we'll have to keep looking." Vinnie shook his head. "You call me as soon as she checks in again, all right? I don't care what time it is, I want to know."

"Will do. You know, Vinnie, you're sounding more like Frank every day."

"I'll tell him you said so, when I see him tomorrow morning. He'll love that." Vinnie grimaced and excused himself to get back to the rectory.

 

Lillah paced casually along the sidewalk half a block behind Mr. Kenneth, shivering in the rain-flecked wind. At least he wasn't likely to recognize her at night, in these clothes. He was nervous, though, checking behind him frequently. Did he suspect someone was following him, or was it just professional caution?

For five blocks she followed him, falling further back as they moved away from the more trafficked areas of town. Mr. Kenneth skipped up the steps of an apartment building, bowling bag in hand, and Lillah took up station across the street to watch. She couldn't quite tell which of the buttons he pushed in the foyer, but it was in the bottom row. All the windows of the building were either curtained, blinded, or dark.

Mr. Kenneth reappeared in five minutes, still carrying the bag. It seemed heavier now, from the way he carried it. Had it been empty before, or just emptier? Lillah waited in the shadows until he was well down the street, then started following again.

At the corner he hailed a cab and got in. Lillah was too far away to hear anything he said to the driver. Cursing, she jogged to the curb and started looking for another cab, until she remembered she had no money with her except a little phone change. She had lost Kenneth, and she was no further along than she had been when she spoke to Dan. All she knew was that apparently the bowling bag Boden had referred to was not at the bottom of the harbor. Not yet.

She watched the cab's taillights disappear down the wet street, then headed back toward the apartment building to check the names on the bottom row of the buzzers. She was going to have to take another bath just to get the chill out of her bones.


	4. Chapter 4

Frank was in the war room, working on a budget report. The numbers danced blurrily before his eyes. A brief knock on the door was followed by a delivery boy. "Package for Mr. McPike," he said, handing Frank a small, flat box.

Frank unwrapped the paper to reveal a jewelry case, the right size for a bracelet or watch. As he opened the case, a paper fluttered to the carpet. It landed face up, declaring "You'll get more of these if you don't call off your dogs."

Inside the case, on a cotton bed, was someone's severed finger.

Vince! Frank grabbed the phone. "Uncle, we have to pull Vince out right away. Where is he? Has he been made?"

"Frank? Hey, relax!" Dan exclaimed. "Vinnie's in Seattle, remember? He snapped and ran. He's not working a case."

"Oh, yeah." Frank hung up. But whose finger was it, if not Vince's? Please God, not Lillah's. He snatched up the finger, still warm and soft from the owner's body, and pressed the tip on an ink pad. He couldn't find any clean sheets of paper and he had to roll the print onto the threatening note.

The computer wouldn't give him the name. All OCB agents had prints on file, it had to be in there! But if the finger was Lillah's . . . Frank pounded the keyboard, cursing.

Mark bent over his shoulder. "Let me help," he said. "What are you trying to do?"

Frank surrendered his chair gratefully. "I have to find out whose finger this is. The computer won't identify the print."

"That's because you're searching the wrong database. It isn't one of our agents' prints, it's a supervisor's. See? That finger belongs to you, Frank."

Frank looked down and saw that there was only a bloody stub where his left pinky should have been.

"Frank? Hey, Frank, you all right? Wake up!"

Frank opened his eyes and stared into the concerned face of Vinnie Terranova. "Agh!" he said, jerking his left hand out from under the covers. It was whole and intact, and shaking like a leaf. He scrubbed dazedly at his face.

"What the heck were you dreaming about, Frank?"

"You don't want to know." Frank groped for the controls to raise the bed higher. "I'll have to talk to the doctor about those drugs, they're giving me nightmares."

"You sure it's the drugs?"

"Well, what else would it . . . " Frank noticed Vinnie's expression. "Lillah. Is she in trouble? She missed a check-in?" He tried to sit up before the bed had adjusted, and gasped as pain lanced through his right shoulder.

"No, no, it's okay, Frank, Lillah just checked in a little while ago." Vinnie patted the air. "She's doing great. She got Boden to trust her, and she's already picked up a couple of leads for us to follow."

"Then how come you look so worried?"

Vinnie grimaced. "She had to get off the phone in the middle of a call, because someone was coming." He moved to stand at the window, with his back to Frank.

"Is that all?" The knot in Frank's stomach loosened. "That happens all the time -- even to the best of us." His tone was pointed.

"Yeah, but . . . I don't like it, Frank. She could be in danger."

"Of course she's in danger -- that's what it means to be undercover! The question you have to ask is, how much danger? Is it immediate or a ways down the road? Is it something she can handle with some outside support, or is it a reason to pull her out? You have to decide whether to leave the agent in play just a little bit longer, knowing it gets that much more dangerous every day -- or give up the case, and have it all be for nothing. And you have to make that decision in a split second, without enough information to go on."

Vinnie made a face. "Lighten up, Frank, will you? I know you had to go through all that with me, but this is different!"

"Why? Because Lillah's a woman? Or because you're the one doing the worrying?"

"She isn't an agent, Frank. She doesn't have the training. And . . . I have a feeling she's not telling us everything."

Frank started to laugh, but it hurt too much to continue -- especially when he wasn't really amused. "Well, if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black! Vince, that is so weak coming from you. When did you ever tell me what was really going on?"

"I kept you up to date!"

"You did, huh? What about the time Mel Profitt ordered you to push a woman off his yacht?"

"Who told --? Roger." Vinnie's eyes narrowed.

"You got it, sport-shoes." Frank looked as if he had eaten something sour. "I think he was trying to reassure me that you had a strong moral fiber, and you wouldn't go rogue or do anything really boneheaded. Instead, I just felt left out."

Vinnie hunched one shoulder guiltily. "I didn't think you needed to know."

"Didn't need to know that you refused a direct order from Profitt? That he held a gun to your head?"

Vinnie laughed without humor and turned back to the window. "Oh, that was nothing. I wasn't really scared until he aimed the gun below my belt."

Frank stabbed the air with his left hand. "The point, Vince, is that your position in Profitt's eyes was radically altered, and you didn't think it was necessary for me to know! What if something like that happened between Lillah and Boden, and she didn't tell you about it?"

Vinnie froze. "You don't think --"

"No, I don't! Lillah isn't a macho chucklehead like you. Anything important happens, she'll tell you. I'm just saying you have no business accusing her of what you do all the time. She's the one in the field, so she calls the shots. You're just a lifeline, her anchor to reality."

Vinnie gave a start. He had said almost the same words a week ago, in this hospital room, when Frank had been in no condition to hear.

The door swung open and a nurse entered -- not the quiet, humorous male nurse who had been changing Frank's bedpans and trading jokes with him all week, but the feisty woman who had taken a dislike to Vinnie. J. McGillis, R.N., said her nametag.

"Time for your medicine, Mr. McPike," Nurse McGillis declared. She took one took at the blood pressure monitor and stepped between the two men. Setting the tray of medicine cups on the bedside table, she grabbed Frank's bed control and started to lower him back to a supine position. "Mr. Terranova," she snapped, "I've spoken to you about this before. You simply can't come in here and disturb our patients. Please leave at once."

"But --" Vinnie began.

"Now, Mr. Terranova!" Her voice cracked like a whip.

"Wait a minute, you haven't asked me about this!" Frank interrupted. "I want him here. And as for me taking any more of those drugs --"

Nurse McGillis turned toward the patient. "You will take your medicine and go back to sleep, Mr. McPike," she said in a dangerously soft tone, "or I will advise the doctor to double the dose and give it to you intravenously."

Vinnie's eyebrows rose at the sight of Frank McPike meekly obeying the nurse's commands, and he slipped out of the room before she could remember his presence.

 

As Vinnie waited by the elevator, a dark-suited man stepped up unobtrusively by his shoulder. Vinnie grinned and gestured for the other man to enter the elevator first, but he shook his head narrowly and waited for Vinnie to make the first move.

As far as any of the Seattle police knew, Vinnie was just a hood. He wasn't sure whether or not his OCB guards had been briefed that he was an agent; from a few remarks one of them had dropped, he guessed that they either knew or suspected the truth, but had been ordered not to speak of it. There was a special irony in pretending to be a bentnosed thug while he was being guarded by men he technically outranked.

Ironic or not, Vinnie was getting tired of having a shadow at his side all the time. Kousakis was dead, so he wasn't in danger any more, but he supposed the Bureau still wanted to keep an eye on him after he had run off from Lynchboro. He didn't appreciate the babysitters, though, and he had started looking for ways to get some amusement out of them. Slipping out for unobserved meets with Lillah was one possibility; trying to get them to crack a real human expression was another.

"So, Johnson, where you from?" he asked, his eyebrows cocked innocently.

Johnson looked at him. "California," he eventually admitted.

"You ever been to New York?" This in his thickest Brooklyn twang.

"A couple times."

"Well, if you ever got any business back there, give me a ring. I'm connected, I can give you special rates, eh?"

Johnson glared at the elevator doors.

"Hey, man, I'm just trying to look out for you. After all, you're looking out for me now, right?"

Johnson shifted impatiently as the elevator came to a halt at the second parking level, and pressed forward as soon as the doors opened. An instant later, he pushed Vinnie back sharply and reached for his gun. Then blood sprayed from his arm and he was sagging against the elevator door. Vinnie hadn't heard a shot.

Vinnie grabbed Johnson and pulled him back into the cover of the elevator. Nothing vital was hit, but from the size of the hole in his sleeve and his white-lipped grimace of pain, Johnson might never be able to use that right arm again. Easing the man to the floor, Vinnie scooped up the fallen gun and peered cautiously out of the open door. It seemed clear, and he heard running footsteps. He punched the button for the emergency floor and stepped out of the elevator before it could start moving. The doors closed behind him on Johnson's gasped protests.

The footsteps had stopped. A car motor sounded, but it didn't seem to be anyone in a hurry. Vinnie crept past the rows of parked cars, every sense alert.

The car he had heard rounded the corner, heading up toward street level. Vinnie ducked between a pickup and a sedan as it approached. It was just an innocent passer-by, but beneath the squeal of a maladjusted fan belt he heard footsteps again. There -- feet running on the far side of the car, someone using it for cover.

Well, two could play that game. Vinnie ran out at a crouch, staying even with the passenger door of the car. Then, as it began to turn left again toward the next level, he darted behind the trunk and slammed into the other man just before he could duck out of sight.

His enemy was a chunky white man in a cheap suit, carrying a .38 with a silencer. Vinnie lashed him across the jaw with the butt of Johnson's gun. The man staggered back and tried to bring his own weapon up, but Vinnie grabbed the barrel with his free hand. In a moment, each man was clinging to the other's gun hand.

Since the other man was more eager to shoot than Vinnie was, the bulk of the struggle ended up on Vinnie's left hand. He was trying to keep the gun barrel down, and his opponent was trying to bring it up by slipping his shoulder down for leverage. Starting to lose the contest, Vinnie desperately jerked his knee up and felt the man's hand spasm in pain on the trigger. Then the other guy was rolling on the ground, clutching at his bloody knee.

Vinnie kicked the .38 out of the way and aimed Johnson's gun squarely at the man's head. "Who sent you?" he demanded breathlessly.

The button man just groaned.

Vinnie gave him a dig in the ribs. "Tell me who you work for! Who called the hit?"

"Ow, man, my leg!" The voice was too distorted by pain to reveal an accent.

Vinnie shoved the gun into the back of his waistband and reached down to grab the other man by the lapels. He patted him down quickly and pulled out a wallet. Credit card, gym card, driver's license -- he had a Manhattan address. Vinnie frowned.

"Over there!" someone yelled, a little distance away.

Vinnie glanced up. A couple of hospital security guards came running out of the elevator. He threw down the button man's wallet, snatched up the silenced gun, and ran. His car -- Frank's car really -- was just around the corner. One of the guards stopped to check out the injured man; the other bounced off Vinnie's trunk as he pulled out of the parking space and roared up toward street level.

His left hand was sticky with blood -- Johnson's or the shooter's, he didn't know. He careened onto the street, steering one-handed while he groped between the seats for a tissue, then gave up and wiped the blood on his jeans. He dumped both guns on the passenger seat and checked to make sure the safeties were on while he made a hasty right turn to get through a red light. A block later, he realized he was doing nearly 50 in a 25 MPH zone. His heart was still racing.

Vinnie forced himself to calm down and think. If this man was from the East, he couldn't be part of Boden's or Kousakis' organization. In any case, hitting Vinnie wouldn't change the damage he had already done to HES, and no one knew he was helping Lillah work against Boden from the inside -- so who had ordered it? And would they be after anyone else? Deliberately slowing to a more reasonable speed, Vinnie picked up the phone.

Nona answered promptly. "Logged, eleven twenty-one, four two ninety, report center twelve."

"This is four-five-eight-seven," he blurted. "Let me talk to Uncle Mike."

A pause. "Vinnie? What's wrong?"

"Somebody just tried to hit me in the hospital parking garage. He shot the guy that was with me. Call the hospital and make sure they put security on Frank's room right away."

"Okay, Nona's on it. Where are you?"

"In my car, I got out of there as fast as I could."

Dan was silent for a long moment. "Who was the shooter?"

"I don't know!" Vinnie thumped the steering wheel. "He had a New York driver's license."

"A free-lancer? Or you think Boden called in outside talent?"

"Or else it's somebody from my checkered past. The shooter's alive, probably in emergency right now. Get someone to ask him a few questions while he's still spacey from the drugs."

"Wait, wait -- if you caught the shooter, why'd you run?"

Vinnie hesitated. An image flashed before his eyes of Johnson, pushing him back and then collapsing in bloody pain. It was entirely too much like what had happened to Frank just a week ago. "I . . . don't know." He shook his head sharply. "I didn't feel safe there. He might not have been alone."

"Well, you were on scene, not me. I'm not making any judgments. But listen," Dan's voice slowed; he knew Vinnie wouldn't like what was coming. "If we don't know who called the hit or why, we don't know what else to watch out for. Vinnie, face it, we have to get you into a safe house."

Vinnie's jaw tightened. He didn't want to be cooped up in a safe house, especially after what had happened to Roger three years ago. Loccoco had managed to escape alive only because of his own convoluted plotting, not because of any OCB security precautions.

"Vinnie? You still there?"

"I'm here, Uncle Mike. I don't like it." Vinnie sighed. "I don't like it . . . but I'll do it. You arrange a pickup, and I'll be there."

"All right, son. You made the right choice. We'll take care of you."

 

Vinnie sat on the corner of a picnic table at a roadside rest stop, one foot propped on the seat and one swinging idly. His blood was still up, and he had both guns with him; Johnson's in his waistband, and the .38 on the table beside him. The view over the river was lovely, but it was a chilly day and no one else was in sight.

He sat up a little straighter as a government sedan pulled into the lot, followed immediately by two Seattle PD cars. Vinnie glanced quickly toward his escape route, down the bank of the river, but the cars pulled right up on the grass, flanking the table. Vinnie held his hands clear as cops leaped out and took aim at him.

"Put your hands in the air and step away from the gun!"

The boys in blue were nervous; Vinnie moved slowly.

"Vincent Terranova, you are under arrest for the murders of Eric Vanacek, Theodore Merrit, and John Kousakis. You have the right to remain silent . . . "

He let them pose him, search him, and cuff him, keeping a level gaze all the while on the two men in the sedan. They watched silently until he was properly secured, then drove away in a shower of gravel.


	5. Chapter 5

"Dawson's bookstore."

"Daycode, family section," Lillah droned into the receiver. The routine was already getting boring. "Bells, repaired, tintinnabulation."

"Now there's a word you don't hear every day," Dan answered. "In fact, I'm not sure I've ever heard it before. You sure that's how it's pronounced?"

"I looked it up," she said dryly. "Did you get information for me on those names from the apartment building?"

"Yep. Chances are your Mr. Kenneth --"

"Please. Not mine," she murmured.

"Right -- he was probably visiting one Stefan Basalia, who used to be Boden's pet lawyer."

"A lawyer? The place didn't look that upscale."

"Yeah, well, this guy was disbarred two years ago, and since then he's been relegated to the nether end of Boden's organization. Plus he apparently has a couple of expensive ex-wives."

"Do you think Boden could have assigned him with getting rid of evidence for a murder?"

"Let me put it this way. One of the little peccadilloes that got him disbarred was evidence tampering in a felony case."

"So he's done it before. But this time he botched it, so Boden sent Mr. Kenneth in to clean up."

"That's how it looks. Now, this could be tricky, since you're not an agent, but if you want we could probably have Basalia picked up for questioning."

Lillah didn't have to consider long. "No. It wouldn't do any good, we have nothing against him."

"What about getting a search warrant? See if he's hiding any other evidence."

"That might work, but it would spook Boden. Keep it in mind -- ask Vinnie what he thinks."

"Oh, yeah . . . about Vinnie."

"What?"

"He's been arrested. Some kind of bureaucratic foul-up. The regional director's trying to get it straightened out, but as long as he's tied up with the police, you're out there without backup. I'm thinking we should pull you out."

"You can't do that, Dan! I'm just starting to get somewhere. Boden called this morning and he has another job for me. He wants me to meet him in half an hour."

"Damn! Lillah, you know, you really shouldn't go to that meeting. We haven't even figured out who caused this snafu with Vinnie, or if it was deliberate."

"Boden probably got Vinnie arrested -- he was thinking about it yesterday. But it doesn't matter, because there's no connection between Vinnie and me. Remember? The best thing about my cover is that it isn't a cover."

"But you still don't know if Boden --"

"He's more likely to distrust me if I don't show up. Now, I have to go get ready if I'm going to be on time for this meeting. Don't worry, Dan, I'll be fine. You do what you can to get Vinnie out." Lillah hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Back to the lion's den.

 

The phone rang just as Lillah stepped off the elevator in front of Boden's office. The secretary flashed a distracted smile while she fielded the call, holding up a finger for Lillah to wait.

"Mr. Boden," she said into the intercom, "Henry Cavanaugh is on line one, and Ms. Warfield is here."

Lillah couldn't decipher the static-ridden reply, but the secretary confidently punched a few buttons on the phone and declared, "Mr. Boden will be ready to see you in a few minutes."

Lillah wandered about the perimeter of the lobby, studying the artwork on the walls. She used one of the fine originals as an excuse to stand close to Boden's office door, but she could hear nothing from within. Eventually she resigned herself to wait and settled into the plush sofa in the corner.

A single blat from the intercom alerted the secretary to let Lillah inside. As she opened the door, one of the puppies tried to squeeze through the gap. She scooped him under one arm and carried him into the office with her.

Boden was leaning expectantly on the corner of his desk, as if he had intended to make some strong impression. Instead, he scowled at the puppy. "Put them in the pen," he snapped, and stuck his head out the door. "Dana, when is the new carpet coming? Well, make sure Stefan gets here and takes these creatures away before the workmen start. I don't want to see them again until they're housetrained."

Lillah retrieved the second puppy from under a chair and deposited both of them in the side room. When she returned to the main office, Boden was posed again with his arms crossed, glaring at her.

Something in his stance made Lillah wary. "You said you had another job for me, Mr. Boden?" she asked.

"I did," he growled. "Now I'm not so sure I can trust you."

"Why? What's wrong?" She tried to look merely puzzled, but her mouth was dry.

"You told me you had federal connections."

"I did! I do. I used to work for the State Department." She was protesting too much. She made herself walk casually to the chair and drape her purse over the arm. "Didn't you check my background?"

"Hmm, yes . . . exactly why were you asked to leave?"

Lillah stiffened. "I prefer not to talk about it." Just thinking about it made her feel slightly ill.

"Humor me," Boden said, his eyes like obsidian.

She glanced away from him. "It was for . . . inappropriate use of classified government information." That was one way of describing what she had done when she warned Imangia Mora that a splinter faction of the CIA was planning to assassinate her.

"Inappropriate use of government funds, according to your file," Boden countered dryly.

"How did you get my file?" she gasped.

"I'll ask the questions, Ms. Warfield. Why does your file say that?"

Lillah sighed. "The man who got me fired never told the truth in his life. He didn't tell the truth about that, either. I never stole money, just information." The money she had given Imangia to flee the country had come from her own pocket.

"But you were well paid in return for the information?" Boden pressed.

Lillah met his eyes and forced the corners of her mouth to curve up just a little, as if she were smug and self-satisfied rather than sick and shamed. He was almost willing to believe her -- now it was time to push back, to show a little plausible indignation. She sat back in the chair. "Why are you concerned about my past, Mr. Boden? Have you been dissatisfied with my work?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," he returned. "You didn't give me the whole story on Terranova."

Her heart thumped. "What do you mean?"

"He's no gangster, he's an undercover agent for the Organized Crime Bureau."

Lillah's hand tightened on the arm of the chair. "Are you sure?" Belatedly, she tried to look more surprised.

"Oh, yes." Boden was watching her narrowly. "My source is very reliable. You, apparently, are not. Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"You told me I was searching for a mafioso," she improvised. "I looked through criminal records. You never said anything about federal agents!"

"And you, with your federal connections, you never found out?"

"I didn't check!"

"So you didn't know he was an agent when you gave me his criminal record? When you advised me to have him arrested?"

"Wasn't I right about getting him arrested? The police are questioning him right now about those killings."

Boden's eyes narrowed. "How did you find out about that?"

"I told you, information is my specialty!"

"Then why didn't you give me the most important information of all about Terranova?"

Lillah leaned forward, focusing on the lie she had to make convincing. She had to try to persuade him that his source was wrong; otherwise, Vinnie's life could be in danger. "Mr. Boden, nothing about this man suggested that he might be an agent. He called a press conference on the HES! That doesn't sound like the OCB's style, does it? I don't know who this other source of yours is, but the story just doesn't add up. If Terranova were an OCB agent, the police would have released him right away. He isn't an officer of the law, he's a fugitive. In fact," she played her trump card, "hasn't the OCB been conducting a manhunt in this area lately? They must have been looking for him. Frankly --" she lifted her chin in challenge "-- I don't believe he's an agent at all."

He weighed her words thoughtfully, then shook his head. "Oh, Terranova's an agent, all right. Look at his record."

"I did. He's been in jail!" Lillah objected.

"And since then, no convictions. The people he worked for, on the other hand, are all either dead or indicted. Steelgrave, Profitt, the Commission in New York . . . wherever this man goes, empires crumble. I don't intend mine to be one of them."

"But you don't have to worry about that, now that you've had him arrested," Lillah pointed out. "Even if he really is an agent, you're onto him. He can't hurt you now." If she couldn't convince Boden that Vinnie was really a hood, she was going to have to find some way to win back his trust in her.

But Boden was standing stiff before her, speaking as formally as if he thought she might be carrying a wire. "I had nothing to do with Terranova's arrest. I work with the Commissioner in a purely advisory capacity. As for your information service, Ms. Warfield, I don't find that it meets my needs at this time. I'm afraid I must tell you not to expect any further employment from my office."

Slowly, she rose and slung her purse over her shoulder. It was over, but she had to keep up the act. "I'm very sorry you feel that way, Mr. Boden," she said with dignity. "I do hope you'll reconsider. You have my card, if there's anything I can do for you." She headed for the door with a prickling sensation between her shoulderblades.

He knew. Perhaps he wasn't quite sure, but he suspected that she was working with the OCB to infiltrate his organization. And he knew she had found nothing yet, so he was letting her go. She should consider herself lucky.

Lucky or not, she had failed.

 

"It's over, Dan," Lillah sighed into the phone. "Boden's onto me."

"You need a pull out?" Dan demanded quickly. "Where are you?" Computer keys clicked in the background.

"No, I'm fine. He knows I don't have anything solid against him, so he let me walk."

"How'd he figure it out?"

"I don't know. Somehow he found out Vinnie's a federal agent. Since I just gave him Vinnie's rap sheet, that means I must be either incompetent or deliberately keeping information from him. Either way Boden wants nothing more to do with me."

"Damn," he swore softly. "That's too bad, Lillah. Are you sure you're safe?"

Oh, yes. Boden's making a point out of being magnanimous. If anything happens to me it could tarnish his good citizen image. Anyway, he knows all he has to do is sit back and watch my business slide into chapter 11." That should only take another month or so in any case.

"And you didn't get anything we could use against him?"

"Nothing but guesses and speculation. You get any leads on that cab Mr. Kenneth took?"

"It dropped him off at the docks."

"Great. Basalia didn't sink the evidence, but Mr. Kenneth did."

"That's what it looks like."

"I don't think there's anything else we can use. You could try searching Basalia's apartment for other evidence, but even if you find something we barely have a provable connection between him and Boden."

"You know, Nona is not going to be happy to hear this," Dan sighed.

Lillah almost smiled at that. "Neither is Frank. I tell you what, Dan, I'll break the news to Frank if you'll tell Nona and Vinnie."

"You got a deal, sister. Vinnie's not a problem, since he's still in jail."

"He hasn't been bailed out yet?"

"The RD's dragging his feet, I don't know why. Listen, I got a call coming in on another line. You watch yourself, Lillah, and keep checking in until we know you're in the clear."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Burroughs." Despite her light tone, Lillah hung up with dissatisfaction. There were too many loose ends to the case, too many unanswered questions. She had hoped that this investigation would give her a sense of completion as well as an in with the OCB. Now, it seemed, she had neither. And an unpleasant interview loomed on the horizon. Squaring her shoulders, she crossed the street to a flower shop. She needed something to offer Frank, even if it wasn't the justice she had wanted for him.


	6. Chapter 6

Lillah sat in the chair by Frank's bed, twisting a tissue in her hands. The flowers she had bought stood on the windowsill, in a patch of sunshine. In the warm light she could see that Frank's color had improved in the days since she'd last seen him, but his sleep was restless. His hands twitched on the coverlet, and he turned his head with a moan. Lillah was just about to reach out and waken him when his eyes opened and focused slowly on her.

"Lillah," he rasped groggily.

She poured him a glass of water, pleased when he pushed himself up on one elbow to drink.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, bringing the bed up to a sitting position. "You can't take the chance of being seen with me."

"It's over, Frank. Boden kicked me out."

He watched her face, still a little dazed with sleep.

"He doesn't have any proof that I've been working with you, of course, but he suspects." She smiled sadly. "I blew it, Frank."

"How did he find out, why does he suspect you?"

She shook her head. "He knows Vinnie's an agent, and he's wondering why I didn't warn him about it. He got it from some source he wouldn't name, but he must trust the guy. I tried bringing up everything Vinnie's done lately that doesn't quite fit the OCB picture--"

"Never thought I'd be grateful for Vince breaking procedure," Frank muttered.

She cracked a grin. "-- But he wouldn't buy it."

"You didn't blow it, then, somebody else did."

"Does it matter? He's onto us. You're not going to be able to get anyone close to him now."

"Did you get anything we could use?"

Lillah considered. He had killed a helpless puppy right in front of her, and she was sure he had killed or ordered the killing of that man who washed ashore. But those sentiments weren't admissible in court. "Nothing," she confessed. "Just shadows of his organization. He has connections everywhere. He had a copy of my State file, too." She frowned. "Whoever this source of Boden's is, he has access to classified documents."

"That's a serious accusation in itself. Whoever gave him that information was committing treason."

"I know." Lillah had lost her career for doing something similar.

Frank hitched himself up. "Look, maybe you didn't get enough evidence for a case, but with this we can justify a full investigation. I'll get on the horn to the regional director --"

"Not necessary," said a voice from the doorway. A tall, dour-faced man entered and came to the foot of the bed. "Hello, Frank."

Frank's lips curled back in an expression of distaste. "So the mountain comes to Mohammed. How's life been treating you, Henry? Better than you deserve, I presume."

"Better than it's treated you, anyway. For a while there I thought the Bureau was going to be free of you."

"I guess I'm just like a bad penny; I keep turning up. What did you come here for, Cavanaugh? Just to brighten my day?"

"We need to talk about Terranova." The man's eyes flicked to Lillah. "Perhaps if your wife could give us a few minutes . . . "

"My friend is already acquainted with Vince," Frank snarled. "And I'm sure she'd love to hear why you haven't bailed him out yet."

Lillah stood so quickly that the chair legs squealed on the floor. "No, that's all right," she said hastily. "I need to stretch my legs anyway."

In the corridor, she leaned against the wall, her knees suddenly rubbery. Henry Cavanaugh! That was the name of the man who had telephoned just before she saw Boden. He was the source of the information Boden had gotten on her and Vinnie. And he was the OCB's regional director for the Pacific Northwest!

She couldn't leave him in there with Frank. But how could she get him out without alerting him? Perhaps she should just let them have their discussion and explain to Frank later. He wouldn't mention anything about their abortive and unauthorized investigation of Boden . . . would he?

She moved closer to the door, trying to hear what was being said on the other side.

Cavanaugh's voice was raised in annoyance: " . . . Rogue agent, on the run from the OCB."

"That's all over, Henry. He's back in the fold now."

"Well, you neglected to mention that he killed three men before you brought him back in the fold!"

"That was self-defense," Frank grated evenly. "And it was only two men."

"John Kousakis?"

"That was an accident! He fell down a set of stairs!"

"According to Terranova. There were no other witnesses present. The man's a loose cannon, Frank, he's unstable. He has a history of mental illness --"

"Henry, I told you about that. He was set up. It should never have happened."

"On the contrary, I think events here in Seattle bear it out. The man belongs in a cell, Frank. Padded or barred, I don't really care, but I'm not bailing him out!"

The conversation was degenerating rapidly. Any second now Frank might say something about Charles Boden. But if Lillah interrupted them, she would just be drawing attention to herself. Had Boden mentioned her name to Cavanaugh? Was Cavanaugh the one who had pulled her State file?

"You're just mad," Frank sneered, "because Terranova's had successes you couldn't hope to duplicate. Beckstead would never trust you with an agent of his caliber, not after the way you fouled up in Phoenix. You ruined Raglin, you know that? He left the Bureau!"

"So will Terranova, if I have anything to say about it. Do you realize he shot two men yesterday, right here in this hospital?"

Frank's sputtering was audible even through the door. "You really have no idea what you're talking about, do you? Johnson was shot by a thug from New York. Vince risked his life to bring that man in alive. He literally shot himself in the foot!"

"According to Terranova -- who was arrested with both guns in his possession. Once again, no witnesses."

Lillah nabbed a passing nurse. "Excuse me," she said hastily. "There's a man in there upsetting Mr. McPike."

Nurse McGillis' eyes hardened, and she lowered her head as if to bring horns into play. "Well, I'll see about that." She pushed open the door to Frank's room.

"Now, you listen to me, sport-shoes," Frank was yelling. "We questioned that shooter to find out who sent him. And the trail leads right back to --"

"Mr. McPike!" the nurse announced in piercing tones. "This is a hospital, not a bar! We'll have no shouting here. You, sir, are annoying my patient. You will leave at once."

Lillah retreated to neutral territory near the drinking fountain and watched Nurse McGillis chivvy Cavanaugh out of the room. At the elevator, Cavanaugh dug his heels in and began to expostulate. An orderly came to the nurse's defense, and Lillah slipped past all of them to get back to Frank's room.

Frank was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking both dizzy and furious. Lillah caught his elbow before he could stand up.

"I gotta get out of here," Frank muttered. "That idiot's going to throw Vince to the dogs."

"Frank, calm down! He's gone now. We'll take care of Vinnie. Are you all right?"

"Don't I have some slippers around here somewhere?"

"Frank, will you just hold on a minute? I have to tell you something."

"Tell me what?"

"That man -- his name is Henry Cavanaugh?"

"Yeah, so what?"

"You didn't mention Charles Boden to him, did you?"

"I tried to persuade him to investigate Boden a week ago, but he wouldn't listen. Why?"

Lillah glanced toward the door. "Because he's in Boden's pocket," she hissed.

Frank's nose wrinkled in confusion. "What?"

"He called Boden's office just when I got there. I didn't hear the conversation, but the next thing I know Boden has the truth about Vinnie and information from my classified file . . . Cavanaugh has to be his federal source!"

"You're kidding me."

"No, it's the only thing that makes sense!"

Belief dawned across Frank's face. "You're right, it does make sense. Why else would he squash the investigation? And how did the police know to nab Vince at the pickup?" His eyes gleamed. "Do you have any proof?"

"Nothing solid, but there has to be evidence -- you can check his phone records, there must be something there."

"Oh ho," Frank chuckled, "I've always known the bastard was rotten, but I never dreamed I could catch him on something like this! And it will give us a hook to Boden, too! Lillah --" he grabbed her face and planted a kiss on her lips "-- you've made my day. No, you've made my year. Give me that phone, I have to call Beckstead."

 

Lillah stood in the phone booth across the street from her apartment. She had considered calling Dan from her own phone, but even now that the case was finished -- her part in it, anyway -- it felt wrong to break procedure. Less than a week undercover, and she was already acting paranoid. How long would it be before Vinnie could sleep soundly? Did Frank, even after all his years out of the field?

"Beckstead approved surveillance on Cavanaugh and a phone tap on Boden," Dan was saying cheerfully. "They're even thinking about trying a sting, feeding Cavanaugh false information and seeing if it leaks to Boden. One way or another, we'll get both those bastards. Cavanaugh's been holding an umbrella over Boden, and once that's removed the OCB won't have any trouble finding dirt on him."

"That's great, Dan," Lillah sighed.

"You don't sound like you think it's great. What's wrong?"

"Well . . . I guess I just wish I had more to do with it, that's all."

"What do you mean? None of this would have happened if it wasn't for you!"

"But all I did was overhear a name!"

"And remember it, and do the right thing at the right time. Not to mention all the work you did getting close enough to Boden to overhear that one name."

"You're right, Dan, I know. But I thought I would be doing something more . . . substantial. I expected it to take longer, at least."

"Believe it or not, hon, efficiency is a virtue -- even when you're working for the government."

She chuckled. "Right. By the way, do you know if . . . if Frank mentioned my name to Beckstead?" That was a cowardly way to find out. She should have asked Frank while she was at the hospital.

"I think he wants to wait until the operation bears some real fruit. Don't worry, we're not going to forget about you."

"I know that. I guess, since it seems like I hardly did anything, I don't expect it to carry much weight."

"Look, Lillah, I know how you feel. You wish you could have been a hero. We all wanna save the world. But you were sensible, which is more important, and you were successful , which is the most important thing of all. Believe me, Beckstead will appreciate that -- and Frank will know just the right time to point it out to him."

"Yeah. Thanks a lot, Dan. I'll talk to you later." Lillah hung up the phone and stared sightlessly through the glass walls. Dan was right; she wished she had had a more heroic role in all of this. She didn't actually expect to save the world, but if she could have saved something from Boden . . . even those poor puppies . . .

Well, why couldn't she save the puppies? The two survivors, at least. She clearly remembered that Boden had sent them to "Stefan" for housetraining; she had stored that name in her memory along with Henry Cavanaugh's. Could he have meant Stefan Basalia, the ex-lawyer and evidence tamperer? The man's apartment was only a few blocks away. Surely it couldn't hurt to check.

Five minutes later, she was standing in the entryway of the building she had watched Mr. Kenneth enter. "This is really stupid, Lillah," she muttered under her breath as she pressed the button beneath S. Basalia.

Nothing happened. She waited a few minutes, then tried again, her spirits lifting a little. If Basalia wasn't home, that might make her job much easier. She tried the other buttons, and was rewarded with a buzz from the door lock after she pressed F. Acton.

Basalia's apartment was on the second floor, in the rear. She knocked, just in case the buzzer was out of order or the man had been occupied when she rang. When there was still no answer, she opened her purse and considered her collection of credit cards. Picking one that was maxed out already, she slipped it into the doorframe. The latch slipped back easily, and the deadbolt was unlocked.

"Well. Hurray for bad security," she said as she entered Basalia's apartment. She had to move quickly now, since she had just committed her first illegal act of the day.

The apartment had only a few rooms. There were no puppies in the amorphous living-room space, the cramped kitchen, or the bedroom. She was almost convinced that she had the wrong "Stefan" when a small sound led her to the bathroom. The two golden labrador pups stared at her from behind a wooden barricade, their tails rustling the paper that covered the floor.

"Morning, boys," Lillah addressed them. "What say we blow this clam bake?"

There was a small animal carrier in the corner of the bathroom, but that would be too memorable if anyone should see her leaving. So would two squirming puppies, for that matter. Lillah hunted around briefly and found a sturdy plastic shopping bag in a closet. With the top held open, it should be adequate to carry the escapees for a few blocks.

"Now, you two are going to have to be very quiet," she began as she reached over the barrier. Then she froze stock still. One of the papers protecting the floor had been overturned.

It bore a letterhead from HES.


	7. Chapter 7

It took only a few moments of scanning the papers on the bathroom floor to determine that she had made a major find. Lillah stepped over the barrier and pushed the puppies out of the way while she turned over more of the stained pages. Despite the occasional chewed corner and the blotches of puppy food and other less savory substances, she could see that the papers held detailed accounts of transactions between Harriet Weiss and Health Elimination Systems. Charles Boden and some of his associates were mentioned in places. A stack of unused papers stood in the corner for future use, and more soiled but still legible pages were in the trash can.

Hands trembling, Lillah started to gather the pages together and shove them into the plastic bag. Here was priceless evidence that could put Boden in jail and shut down at least half of his Seattle operations! Basalia must have been assigned to get rid of these documents; instead he had decided to put them to some use before he disposed of them. Apparently this wasn't the first time Basalia had messed up a disposal job, but it would certainly be the last.

Then Lillah hesitated as she began to realize some of the legal complexities involved in claiming this evidence. She had no right to be here, in Basalia's apartment, finding these papers. As a private citizen she could be charged with breaking and entering, and even theft if she removed the papers and the puppies from the apartment. As an associate of McPike's and an unofficial participant in an OCB investigation, she could be jeopardizing the admissibility of the evidence in a court of law.

She could leave the papers here and have Dan get a search warrant. It should only take a few hours, unless one of Boden's cronies in the justice system slowed down the proceedings. The papers would still be here -- she hoped -- when the police arrived to take legal possession. But she would have to leave the puppies behind, as well; otherwise Basalia might come home and realize someone had been snooping around.

Lillah glanced down at the puppies. One of them was trying to climb into her lap. The other was yipping and scratching at the papers, excited by the new game she had invented. She bit her lip, undecided, and at that moment she heard a noise behind her.

She whipped her head around just in time to see Charles Boden coming around the corner from the living room. "Stefan? Where are--" he called out, breaking off as he caught sight of Lillah. "Ms. Warfield, what in hell are you doing here?"

She stood up, clutching the puppy that had climbed in her lap. "Hello, Mr. Boden."

His brows drew down in a scowl as he overcame his surpise. "Answer me, woman. Who let you in here?"

"I came to get the puppies," she said slowly, evading the question of how she had gotten in.

"What for?" he demanded.

"Because I don't think you're qualified to take care of them," she answered, moving forward. She had to keep his attention away from those papers!

"What do you mean, not qualified? I've been keeping dogs since your parents were in short pants!"

"And killing them, too?" Lillah stepped over the barrier, still cradling one pup protectively. "I saw you slaughter that poor puppy just for the crime of being young!"

Boden shook his head impatiently. "That was nothing. I was upset at the time. Not myself. I get along very well with dogs. Here, give him to me, I'll show you." He extended his hands.

"No!" Lillah interjected fiercely, and stepped to the side with the puppy wrapped in her arms. A moment later she realized that she had made a mistake, giving Boden an unobstructed view of the papers stuffed halfway into the bag. She compounded the error by glancing involuntarily into the bathroom. The letterhead was clearly visible.

Boden followed her gaze, but seemed to think she was looking at the other puppy. "I'm not going to hurt them," he insisted in a fatherly tone, and reached over the barrier for the second pup, which cowered behind the toilet. His hand froze inches from the stack of papers.

"So!" He straightened slowly. "It seems you truly do have a talent for finding things out, Ms. Warfield. Too bad you decided to use it against me, rather than for me."

Lillah moved back a pace. "I haven't been working against you, Mr. Boden," she began nervously, struggling to make her brain work. Cavanaugh couldn't have warned him about her, because he'd never heard her name in the hospital. Could anyone else have seen her conferring with Frank? "If you want me working for you, I've already told you my price."

Boden's expression was bizarrely cheerful as he stepped toward her. "Ms. Warfield -- may I call you Lillah? -- I haven't survived forty years in this business without being able to recognize my enemies. You've been keeping secrets from me since the first moment you walked into my office. And now I find you digging up secrets about me. From your history, I can guess where you were planning to sell them, but really it doesn't matter. I'm afraid I can't let you leave this apartment." He turned partly away from her and opened the small drawer of an endtable that stood against the living-room wall. Pulling out a handkerchief and wrapping it around his hand, he lifted out the small revolver that rested in the drawer.

When she saw the gun, Lillah's paralysis of indecision broke and she rushed forward to stop him. But she had forgotten the puppy she still cradled in one arm. As they struggled for possession of the gun, the pup became sandwiched awkwardly between their bodies. Tiny claws dug into her forearm as he squirmed to get free. The revolver was pointed at the ceiling with Lillah's right hand clutching the barrel, while her left tried to pry Boden's grip away. Teeth bared, Boden tried to bring the muzzle down to point at her face. Lillah twisted, and the aim slewed from the ceiling to the hall behind her, to her left shoulder -- Boden pulled the trigger.

The puppy launched himself convulsively off of Lillah's elbow and fell to the floor, yelping shrilly. Lillah's right hand had loosened from the gun when it fired, but her left hand caught a corner of the handkerchief. With a sharp yank she pulled both handkerchief and gun from Boden's grasp. Her free hand punched him hard in the diaphragm. Whooping for breath, Boden staggered backwards and collapsed against a corner of the couch.

Lillah retrieved the gun and went after the puppy, which had run beneath a low table, still crying in pain. From the amount of noise he was making, he couldn't be vitally hurt, but there was blood all over his face. When she reached into the tight space to pull him out, sharp teeth sank into her thumb. She pulled back and threw a glance at Boden to see if he had caught his breath yet.

Something was wrong. Lillah had once been hit with a softball in the solar plexus, and she knew that it took quite a while before the victim could speak. But Boden wasn't gasping for air; in fact, he hardly seemed to be breathing at all. He had slipped to the floor, and his face was an unbecoming purplish-gray, sheened with sweat. At first she thought the stray bullet must have hit him somehow, but she could see no blood.

Warily, with the gun in her hand, Lillah approached and gave Boden's shoulder a shake. Could he be choking on something? Oddly squeamish, she tried to feel for his pulse with her left hand. She couldn't find one, but she wasn't sure if that was her own clumsiness or not. Boden was quite still now, his eyes rolled back and his face congested. His chest wasn't moving.

Lillah searched distractedly for what seemed like several minutes before she found a phone in the kitchen. Her finger left little smears of blood -- hers? the puppy's? Boden's? -- on the 9 and the 1.

"Hello," she gasped into the phone. Her voice was strangely high-pitched. "I --" A large, dark-skinned hand reached over her shoulder and depressed the button on the phone before she had even figured out what to say. She whirled and stared up at the forbidding face of Mr. Kenneth.

"I didn't -- I wasn't -- I didn't mean --" she stammered.

He stepped back and produced an automatic, jerking the muzzle toward the living room. Her heart fluttering like a trapped bird, Lillah moved in the direction he indicated.

"He dead?" he demanded shortly, with a glance at the fallen statesman.

"It's not -- I don't know." Lillah tried desperately to remember where she had left the revolver. She had been holding it a moment ago . . . "I didn't mean to kill him -- I think he had a heart attack. They can help him, if . . . I was calling an ambulance!" She made an abortive gesture toward the phone and froze as the automatic's wandering aim fixed squarely on her.

"He tried to shoot you?"

Lillah swallowed. "Yes." She managed to keep her voice under control that time.

"How come?"

"He . . . " Lillah couldn't think of a plausible lie. "I found out -- something he didn't want me to know. There are some papers in the bathroom."

Mr. Kenneth's eyes narrowed. "Kousakis' junk?"

"Yes."

Under other circumstances, she might almost have thought the man was amused. "You planning to give those papers to the police?"

Lillah just stared, bewildered by his strange expression.

"I said, what are you going to do with those papers?" Kenneth snapped in a louder voice, steadying the automatic once again.

Lillah jumped. "Yes! The police." She was almost sure she had left the revolver on the table where the puppy was hiding. She forced herself not to look in that direction.

"Hunh." Mr. Kenneth took a step back around the crumpled body. "So the old bastard finally gets what's coming to him." He threw another unfathomable look at Boden -- love? hate? triumph? "You forget that ambulance," he added. "Best let dead dogs lie." He turned toward the door, letting the gun drop to his side.

Lillah lunged for the low table and snatched up the revolver. It felt like running underwater, and she was impossibly slow and clumsy. By the time she had the gun cocked and aimed, Mr. Kenneth was watching her from the doorway. The muzzle of his automatic gaped enormously.

"You ever kill anyone before?" Mr. Kenneth asked. When she didn't reply, he showed a line of white teeth. "I didn't think so. That old Jew was your first. You don't want to make it a double the very first time, do you?" He tucked his gun into his waistband and walked slowly toward her, holding out his hand.

The revolver wavered in her grip, but she couldn't make herself pull the trigger. Mr. Kenneth put one hand on the gun and another on her wrist and gently disarmed her. Then he took her pinky finger and pulled it back so quickly that she didn't even realize it was broken until after she heard the sharp crack .

With a strangled cry, Lillah curled around the blooming pain and slipped to her knees. Mr. Kenneth uncocked the revolver and dropped it in front of her, then just turned his back and walked away.

Lillah stayed crouched on the carpet until she managed to get herself around the pain. She didn't look at the body again, or her broken finger. She was too confused by her own feelings to try to understand what Mr. Kenneth had done. For all the self-defense and hand-to-hand courses she had taken, she had never actually struck anyone in anger before. And now Boden was dead. She had caused a man's death with her bare fist. She pressed her left hand against her mouth to hold back bile, or maybe sobs.

She had just coaxed the puppy out from under the table and was blotting the blood from his face with Boden's handkerchief, when Vinnie burst into the apartment with the Seattle police on his heels.


	8. Chapter 8

After Lillah's finger had been seen to, she and Vinnie rode the hospital elevator up to Frank's floor, accompanied by a cadre of professional paranoids. With the edge taken off her nerves by the painkillers, Lillah finally thought to ask Vinnie how he had managed to arrive at the apartment so soon.

"I had just got out of the police station -- Beckstead finally got me out -- and I was on the phone to Uncle Mike trying to piece together everything that happened, when Nona heard the call on the police scanner, and she recognized the address. A couple of the neighbors had reported gunfire, and also there was your call which got cut off -- so it sounded pretty urgent. So I flashed my badge to get a ride in one of the squad cars --" The elevator doors opened "-- and that's the story. I just wish we'd been on time to catch that Kenneth guy."

"No sign of him, huh?"

Vinnie shook his head. "Into thin air."

The guards flanking them exchanged nods with two more suits standing outside Frank's room, then they were allowed to enter alone. A short, sharp-eyed man with his hair parted exactly in the middle turned to face them.

"Director Beckstead!" Vinnie said in surprise. "I didn't know you were coming out here. Hey, thanks for bailing me out."

"Yes, we'll have to have a talk about that sometime," the director said coolly. "And is this the Agent Warfield I've been hearing so much about?"

"Oh, yeah -- Lillah, this is Paul Beckstead, Director of the OCB. Mr. Beckstead, this's Lillah Warfield."

Lillah smiled and waved her splinted hand to explain why she didn't shake. Frank, she noted out of the corner of her eye, looked like he was braced for trouble.

"In fact," Beckstead began in a pleasant tone as Lillah and Vinnie headed for opposite sides of the bed, "maybe we should have that talk right now."

Now Vinnie was starting to look apprehensive as well. Somehow, he and Frank and Lillah had all ended up in a row staring at Beckstead, who commanded the foot of the bed. So why did it seem as if Beckstead was the firing squad and they were the targets?

"Look at you," the Director snorted. "The three of you -- Dorothy, the Scarecrow, and the Cowardly Lion."

Vinnie stiffened.

"The problem is, all three of you appear to be missing your brains. You, Terranova. So you lost your nerve. Fine. Could happen to anyone. But what were you thinking when you ran out and left the whole case in Frank's lap? Do you have any idea of the trouble you caused?"

Vinnie bit his lip and stared at the floor.

"We've been urging you to leave the field for over a year now, and you refused. You know the Bureau is ready to help you out, give you all the time you need to decompress. But you decided to go rogue and run off on your own, and when you ran into trouble you had to deal with it yourself, instead of coming to the authorities."

Vinnie cleared his throat. "I wrote to the Board of Environmental Safety, sir."

"Uh-heh. And when that didn't work you killed two men, two men who you suspected would be gunning for you. And your next solution was to go to the press, which resulted in getting Frank and an innocent bystander shot. Don't you think this could have been handled better by the OCB?"

"Not with Henry Cavanaugh in charge, it wouldn't," Frank put in.

Beckstead's withering gaze shifted a few feet to the left. "And that brings us to you, Frank. You didn't know Henry was dirty until yesterday, but you've been keeping him -- and me -- in the dark all along. Not only did you not report that Terranova was in Seattle -- not only did you not report that he was in trouble with the local organization -- but you sanctioned and abetted an illicit investigation into that organization, jeopardizing the safety of a civilian! How do you explain that?"

"Brain damage, sir," Frank replied, deadpan.

"The investigation wasn't Frank's idea," Lillah interrupted quickly. "It was mine."

"Which is not much of an endorsement of your good sense," Beckstead responded.

"It worked, didn't it?" demanded Frank. "You never would have uncovered Cavanaugh's involvement by following procedure."

"Perhaps not. But after uncovering Cavanaugh, Ms. Warfield then destroyed the entire case by returning to retrieve -- what was it -- a dog?"

"She didn't destroy the case, sir, she made it. We now have solid documentation connecting Boden to HES and Harriet and Saul Weiss. Not to mention the names of half the crooked officials in this city."

"At the expense of our chance to find out exactly what Cavanaugh was up to."

Frank snorted. "Paul, you already told me you got enough from his phone records to keep him playing tag with lawyers for the rest of his life."

"But Ms. Warfield didn't know that when she decided to throw the case over for a whim," Beckstead pointed out with a significant look at her.

Lillah swallowed hard. This didn't sound promising for her new career in the Bureau.

"Aw, c'mon," Frank protested. "She did a damn good job and you know it. She stuck to procedure a lot better than some trained agents would have, and that was after only half a day of briefing!"

"She shouldn't have been involved at all. She is not an agent of the OCB."

"But she could be. And if she was an agent, this whole lecture of yours wouldn't have half a leg to stand on. Have a heart, Tinman!"

Beckstead's lips compressed into a thin line. But Frank had judged his man well; after a few moments the director relented and began to smile, shaking his head. "You know, Frank, if you hadn't saved my ass all those times in Minneapolis . . ."

"But I did." Frank grinned with his eyebrows. "And I got a line of credit with you --"

"-- Which is almost tapped out," Beckstead retorted.

The door opened, and the dreaded Nurse McGillis stepped into the room. She did not look pleased to discover three visitors crowded around her patient, and she fixed on Beckstead at once as the leader of the group.

"Sir, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave now and let Mr. McPike have his rest," she said testily.

Beckstead raised one brow at her. "I don't recall giving the guards instructions to let you in here."

She flushed dangerously. "I work here! This is my patient, and I won't have you disturbing him!"

Beckstead pointed toward the bed. "I am your patient's boss . If I want him to be disturbed, he'll damn well be disturbed. And if I want him to get well, he'll get well. And if I want you to leave this room immediately, you'd better do it, unless you want to be dragged out by my men."

Nurse McGillis' eyes grew round. "Well!" she exclaimed, and stomped out of the room.

"Thank you, Paul," Frank said with feeling.

"She's just gonna go browbeat some poor doctor into coming in here and arguing some more," Vinnie predicted.

"Time for a strategic retreat, then. You --" Beckstead pointed at Vinnie "-- back to the safehouse. No more games with the guards. You, Ms. Warfield, are also going to be under protective surveillance until we've finished mopping up around here. You --" he glared at Frank "-- get better."

"Yes, sir," Frank replied. "I'll get to work on it right away." He tipped his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

 

Lillah tucked a supportive hand under Frank's elbow as they climbed the steps to the safe house. He was already winded by the time they reached the top, and had to wait a few minutes to catch his breath before they entered the front door.

"Where's Vince?" Frank demanded suspiciously as he sagged into a couch in the front room.

"He's upstairs." Lillah settled nervously at the far end of the couch.

"You sure? Why doesn't he come down to say hi?"

"I'm sure. That's why the guards are here, right, to make sure he's safe? I asked him to give us a few minutes to talk."

"Talk? About what?"

Lillah swallowed. "Us. The future."

Frank made a wry face. "The only future I'm worried about is my first meal as a free man. Didn't you say Dan and Nona had something planned for us?"

"They're picking it up now, along with a get well present for you. Since Vinnie has to stay in this house, they figured take-out would be better."

"So long as it's something with texture, something I can really sink my teeth into." Frank contemplated this vision of paradise for a few moments, then asked, "So, what about the future?"

Lillah hesitated. "Well . . . Beckstead offered me a job with the Bureau. Desk work -- but it is investigation, which is what I'm good at." She shrugged. "He said he couldn't actually get my State Department records changed, but he's going to see what he can do to have an explanation added in. You were right about Leland Masters -- nobody believes in him any more."

"Well, you can thank Vince for that," Frank replied.

"So what are your plans now, Frank?"

He rolled his head back against the soft couch. "Rest and recover. I'll be on medical leave for a while. After that, I don't know. Paul was making noises about needing a new RD for the Pacific Northwest."

Lillah pursed her lips. "It's quite a step up."

"Yeah," Frank sighed. "I don't know. My experience is in the east. I know all the players. And my family's out there. How can I visit my son if I'm three thousand miles away?"

"I'm going to be moving back east too," Lillah said quietly.

"Yeah? Where will you be living?"

"Well, my parents left me a house near Wilmington. The couple that was renting it just moved out. Kind of a long commute for the Bureau HQ, but a lot of computer work can be done long distance. And it's convenient to Jersey, as well." Her eyes slid sideways.

Frank looked a little puzzled at this.

"It's a nice house," she continued. "A little big for one person, though. It has a backyard . . . perfect for a dog. Or kids."

Frank lifted his head and stared at her. "Lillah . . . are you proposing to me?"

Lillah took a breath, then froze with her mouth open. After a moment they both laughed, breaking the tension. "I'm not trying to push you into anything, Frank. I just thought you should know your options. I would love to move in with you. But --"

Frank hitched himself a few feet to the side, so that he was closer to her. "No buts, Lillah," he said, and pressed a kiss on her lips.

The front door opened. "Hey!" Dan Burroughs exclaimed. "Now that looks like a good idea." He snagged Nona as she tried to pass him with her arms full of bags, and gave her the same treatment.

Nona broke away when one of the bags nearly slipped. "Dinner's here," she announced a little breathlessly. "And the, uh, other item is on the porch."

Lillah hurried to the door, her cheeks red.

"Hey, where's my date?" Vinnie protested, descending the stairs.

"We could always give Carol a call," Dan suggested, helping Nona set out the dinner items.

Vinnie groaned. "Please! Bad enough Beckstead orders me into daily therapy sessions."

"Is it helping?" Frank asked quietly.

Vinnie shrugged, embarrassed. "We talk. She's helping me put some things together, but . . . it doesn't erase the things I've done." He glanced up at Frank and Dan. "I decided you two are right. It's time for me to get out of the field. At least this way, I can tell all my old friends I'm not some kind of a wiseguy. So, yeah, I guess it's helping. But --" he glared at Dan "-- I do not need to be seeing my shrink on the side."

Dan chuckled. "Hey, Vinnie, she came all the way out here to Seattle to help with the search for you!"

"Yeah? Well, so did you, and I don't see you asking me out to dinner."

"Now boys!" Nona warned them. "We do have something else to talk about right now." She cocked her head at Lillah, who had reappeared with two wriggling puppies in her arms.

Lillah placed them ceremoniously in Frank's lap. "Dan said it's been a while since you had a dog. If you want one, I have a friend who offered to take the other."

Frank's hands came up slowly to keep them from sliding off his legs. "What happened to this one?" he asked, studying the gauze dressing that covered half of one puppy's face.

"Charles Boden," Nona answered grimly.

"He got in the way of a bullet," Lillah explained.

Dan supplied the latest information. "The vet says his eardrum wasn't ruptured, but you might expect some hearing loss from having the gun go off so close to his ear."

"And the eye?" Lillah asked.

Dan shook his head regrertfully. "Couldn't save it. But he's young, he'll probably do a good job learning to cope with one eye. He's never going to be a champion frisbee catcher, though."

Lillah watched Frank closely for a reaction. "He's yours if you want him."

Frank's eyes were suspiciously red as he ducked down to let the puppy lick his face. The unhurt puppy scrabbled off his lap to investigate a pillow at the other end of the couch. "Sounds like we both took a beating from Charlie Boden. Guess we were made for each other."

"What are you going to call him?" Nona asked.

Frank fondled the puppy's good ear. "I don't know," he mused. "Maybe I should call him Vince."

Vinnie choked.

"Come here, Vince," said Frank experimentally. "Sit down, Vince! Roll over, Vince." He turned the puppy's head up to him. "What do you think?"

Dan laughed. "Might not be such a good idea, Frank. Could give him ideas about insubordination."

"Come on, you guys!" Vinnie protested.

"No, it would be too confusing," Frank decided. "Especially if I ever took the dog to a meet. How about . . ." He smoothed his fingers over the dressing on the puppy's eye. His left eye. "I know. Krull."

Vinnie was appalled. "Eugh, not that awful movie!"

"It's perfect. 'I saw Krull and a dog.' Lillah, you gotta see this movie some time."

"That's torture, Frank!" Vinnie objected.

"I don't know. After the tenth repetition or so, it starts to grow on you. Rog --" Frank broke off with a glance at Dan. "Your friend loved it. Krull it is, then." He set the puppy on the floor. "When your master says, do this thing, you do it, whatever the thing may be. Got it?"

The puppy wagged his tail and started chewing on Frank's shoelaces.

 

May 1996


End file.
